I didn’t sleep at all last night and that frustrates me like you wouldn’t imagine. COULDN’T, Couldn’t imagine, I mean.

I’m afraid if I start talking, I’ll start liking it and I won’t stop and I’ll turn into a Maury (Not Povich). If you don’t know what a Maury is, all you have to do is rent or watch your copy of Goodfellas and keep your eye out for the… uh… Maury character. The guy talked and talked and talked. And you know what happened? He got fucking killed. Killed by suave, dreamy Robert DeNiro. So the message I got from that movie, besides don’t do coke, don’t be a mobster, was SHUTTTT UPPPPP. I’ve been assured that I’m not a Maury but I don’t trust living things. Also? I think there are a lot of people out there who talk (about their feelings) WAY more than they need to, and I guess I’m trying to keep the world at a balance. I think. I don’t know. Maybe it’s something else. Oh-My-God, this apple is so crunchy and this office is so quiet. I don’t have the kind of crunchyapple confidence yet to be like Yeah, this is me and this is my apple – deal with it, people, humans. I mean, the guy over there has crunchy doritos… THAT’S something, right? So loud I can hear what flavor they are. I hate air conditioning but it’s good for drowning out noise. ANYWAY. I don’t know. I’ve just gotten ok with opening a can of soda (multiple cans) amid the silence so at least I know I’m getting somewhere.